


Sensation

by rei_c



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Affection, Aftercare, Handcuffs, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Sex, Praise Kink, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-05
Updated: 2006-10-05
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6933547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c





	Sensation

"Yes," Dean murmurs, the words getting lost in the skin of Sam's throat. 

Sam turns his head, tries to look at Dean, and ends up tightening his hold on his brother's hip. "Say it again," Sam says, and Dean sighs as Sam's fingers start tracing out runes on their way to Dean's cock. "Tell me, Dean."

He shivers, scrapes his teeth over Sam's skin, and says, "Yes, Sam. I trust you. Do it."

Sam rolls them over, pressing Dean into the mattress, leaning down and giving him a gentle kiss, a mere swipe of lips. "Stay there," Sam whispers, and Dean nods, closing his eyes. 

He doesn't need to watch to know what Sam's doing. Sam's lips and teeth and tongue press and nip and lick at his skin, leaving marks on Dean's neck, chest, stomach. Fingers slide down his sides, and then Sam nuzzles Dean's hipbone, says, "Again, Dean."

Dean arches, wraps his hands around and through the wrought-iron headboard. "Do it, Sam." When he says, "Please," he hears Sam inhale, and then shift, reach for something on the floor. He shivers a moment later, feeling the press of cold metal against his leg. Sam's tongue follows, wet heat gliding over the goosebumps, and Dean arches again, hands tightening. Sam presses his nose into Dean's stomach, body moving upwards against Dean's until they're kissing, breathless and infinite. 

"Trust me," Sam says, and Dean opens his eyes, looks at his brother, Sam hovering above him. 

"I do," Dean says, and the quiet click of the handcuffs echoes in the room, echoes in Dean's blood. He tests the restraints, can't stop from tensing, and he swallows, mouth dry. "I do," he says again, and Sam smiles, teeth shining. 

"Good."

His heart is racing. It echoes in his ears with the rhythm of a tire gone flat, _thud-thud_ , and he wonders how on earth he can be thinking of tires at a time like this, a time when Sam lips are sucking on the pulse-point of his throat, Sam's hands are stroking over his stomach, Sam's hard and pressed against him. He wants to touch his brother, jerks against the cuffs, and Sam stills, looks up at him. 

"You're thinking too hard," Sam says, blinks slow and long, and Dean's eyes slide to the play of lashes and light. "I can take them off if you want."

Dean shakes his head, laughs, mesmerized by the glow of his brother's skin. "Distract me," he says, and Sam blinks again, dipping his head to Dean's shoulder. Sam sinks his teeth into Dean's collarbone and rests one hand next to Dean's cock. 

Sensation becomes electric.

Seconds turn into minutes which turn into eternities as Sam plays his way down Dean's body. Sam kisses him, and Dean's heart speeds up. Sam bites him, and Dean's heart skips a beat. Sam licks him, laves the dip of his navel and the curve of his hip, and Dean's heart tries to break through his chest. When Sam's mouth turns, finally, to his cock, and Sam's lips part around it, Dean's heart stops. 

_Thud-thud_ , he hears, and pulls on the cuffs. _Thud-thud_ , he hears, and the world goes white. _Thud-thud_ , he hears, and then he's arching, trying to push up into that wet heat, the sharp teeth and smooth palate, gasping as he tries to get free.

The world narrows down to this: Sam's mouth around his cock. Sam's sucking, letting his teeth graze as his head moves up and down so slowly, too slowly, fingers dancing up and down the inside of Dean's thighs, hair ghosting over Dean's skin when Sam moves off and licks his lips. 

"Sam," Dean says, voice tight, skin around the cuffs white. He almost forgets them, thinks only that they're keeping him from touching Sam, from running his fingers through Sam's hair. He wants to hold Sam's cheeks as he fucks Sam's mouth, and he pulls harder when Sam only laughs, eyes dark and knowing. 

"I'll get you there," Sam says, leaning forward to lick a stripe over Dean's hipbone. "Eventually."

The tone Sam's using is enough to make Dean swallow, hard, and he says, "Sam?" with a shiver in his breath. Sam seems to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time; first he's kissing Dean speechless, then he's stroking Dean's calves, then he's leaving bruises with his teeth on Dean's ribs. 

"I love it when you're like this," Sam murmurs, and Dean's head is spinning so fast he doesn't know if the words fill the air or his ear, if Sam's saying them down by his feet or right next to his neck. "Love to hear you beg, Dean, love to watch you, fuck, yeah, like that," when Dean moans and thrusts up into the fingers stroking him, pulling him harder. "You'll beg, won't you, Dean?"

"Sam," Dean says, every muscle in his body bowstring-taut, lungs too full or too empty, he's not sure, only knows he can't breathe, not when Sam's talking to him like that. 

"You can't come until you beg, Dean," Sam says, and Dean almost cries when the fingers stop gripping him, stop touching him entirely, body moving back from the edge. He opens his eyes and sees Sam hovering above him, lips curved in a smile that has Dean writhing for a touch, for lips or tongue or teeth, _anything_. 

He almost cries, he wants to cry, he wants to get out of these cuffs and fuck his brother senseless, but Sam's smiling and looking at him as if this is just as much a test as it is a fuck, so he says, voice shaking as much as his arms, "Please, Sam." Sam looks up at him, and Dean can't help but shiver. "Please," he begs, voice raw, and Sam smiles, shakes his head. 

"No, Dean. Not yet. You can wait, can't you?" He whimpers, a choked sob of a noise, and Sam leans up, presses his body against Dean's, undulating upwards until his teeth are scraping over Dean's shoulders and his hands are running up Dean's arms. When Sam's fingers glide underneath the handcuffs chaining Dean to the bed, hot skin and cold metal pressing into his wrists, Dean gasps, pants, and listens to the rumble of laughter in Sam's throat. "So good," Sam murmurs, breath sliding over Dean's ear, tongue following a moment later. "So good, Dean."

" _Please_ ," Dean says again, body straining. He's so close, he can feel it, his toes are curling, and when Sam leans back, leans away, _again_ , he sobs, shuddering. 

"Do you know why I'm doing this, Dean?" Sam says, and Dean wants to kill his brother for sounding so casual, for asking _questions_ when Dean can't even talk. "I love to see you, love to hear you. But you're mine, Dean. I'm the only one that gets to see you like this, spread out and panting, no one else. Everyone at that bar was looking at you, wanting you, and you let them look, Dean. I don't like that."

Dean shudders again, spine bending as he arches, trying to find even the slightest hint of friction. "Yours," he pants, feet scrabbling, twisting in the sheets. "Yours, Sammy, _God_ , please."

"You're mine, Dean. You always have been and you always will," Sam says, and Dean gasps, tries to breathe as his cock twitches. 

"Yes, Sam, please, Sammy, _please_ ," the only words he can get out, over and over and over.

Sam leans over him, moves downwards, lifts Dean's legs over his shoulders and licks Dean's perineum. "But Dean, what they don't understand, what they don't know," he says, before his tongue darts out and pushes into Dean, stakes a claim, "is that I belong to you. Now come, Dean."

He does, a shuddering, wracking sob bursting from his lips as Sam's tongue pushes inside of him, as Sam's fingers stroke him. Dean whites out, can't find his breath, can't find a rock to cling to as he washes away, washes out. But Sam's there, Sam's there, Sam's there.

When Dean opens his eyes again, Sam is nuzzling the skin under the metal cuffs, licking away the angry red stripes. He stops, when Dean's awake, looks down and smiles, but Dean sees hesitance in Sam's eyes, wariness in the set of Sam's jaw. 

"I trust you," Dean says, and hopes it's enough. Sam's lips quirk upward and his fingers go to the handcuffs, to unlatch them, and Dean knows that it wasn't. "Sam," he says, "stop." 

Sam does, eyes darting back down to meet Dean's, bruised look inside of them. "We should sleep," Sam says gently, too gently, and Dean shakes his head. 

"You said, at the bar, that you were going to fuck me, but you haven't." He swears Sam stops breathing, and so Dean smiles and adds, "Not yet."

Sam leans away and he says, "Dean, you don't have to--" before Dean can cut him off, grasping the cuffs and pulling himself up. He looks at Sam, wants to remind his brother about the promise (" _When we get back to the motel, Dean_ ,"), reassure his brother that this, the fucking, the punishment, the _love_ is what he wants. 

"I know I don't have to," Dean says, "but I want to. I want you to." Sam's still hesitating, so Dean tilts his head down, looks at Sam through gold-dusted eyelashes, and says, "Please?"

Sam breathes in again and Dean watches Sam's eyes darken, watches the play of muscles under Sam's skin, watches as Sam swallows and nods. "All right, Dean," Sam says, and the tone sends a jolt straight to Dean's cock.

It doesn't happen like this very often; Dean doesn't like the feeling of being spread open, filled to bursting. If he was more poetic, less _him_ , he'd think that Sam's already filled every place inside of him and this, what he's asking for, it's too much, goes too deep. He thinks Sam doesn't mind it, being the one on his back, on his knees and elbows, but he's never asked. He should.

When they do this, Sam's eyes hold the universe. Dean's the one who put it there. 

Sam leans down and kisses him, teeth and tongue sharp, demanding, and he opens his mouth wide, lets Sam have everything, lets Sam stake his claim. Fingers start trailing up and down his ribs, sliding over his belly, and when they brush his nipples, Dean arches, the movement stopped by the cuffs, Sam moving away and wearing a smile that makes Dean swallow.

Dean watches as Sam stretches out and snags a condom from the nightstand, eyes trailing down the sleek lines of Sam's arm, interrupted by the frayed edges of a sleeve. Dean's naked and Sam's still dressed, still wearing jeans and a t-shirt, it isn't fair. Sam's been pressed against him, Dean knows how hard Sam is inside of those jeans, can almost taste the sweat he knows is making Sam's tanned skin glow. It isn't _fair_. If he wasn't stuck in these cuffs, if he wasn't held into place by one of Sam's legs-- _it isn't fair_.

"Sam," he says, voice shaking, "Sam, _please_ , it's not fair." 

Sam laughs, moves to straddle Dean's thighs, denim rubbing against Dean's cock. "What isn't?" he asks, and Dean wants to scream, but all he can say is "I want to see you," and then he wants to laugh, victory and defeat in the same sound, as Sam stops, stops moving, stops smiling, and says, in a low, quiet voice, "Not until I let you, Dean."

He thinks about Sam's reply, about what Sam means, and Dean's mind shuts down. The blindfold? An order to not look? Or will Sam fuck him like that, push his jeans and underwear down just enough to, to, _God_. 

"Sam, Sam _please_ ," he says again, voice catching, drawing the 's' out into a hiss as Sam's teeth tug on a nipple, pull and twist. He doesn't know how Sam can be like this, can wait, make this so much torture; if he were Sam, fuck, he would have come three times already, _fuck_ , "Fuck, Sam, come _on_." 

Sam laughs, mouth open and pressed against the hollow of Dean's neck. The vibration sinks into Dean, followed by teeth, scraping downwards, leaving marks.

His whole body is burning, on fire, igniting under Sam's touch like kindling. He's distantly aware of Sam's voice washing over him, can't pick out words but understands the tone, hears vague traces of "Yeah, Dean," and "So good." He's beyond speech, letting Sam coax out whimpers and groans, hissed breath and arched back, until Sam slides one finger inside. 

" _Fuck_ ," he says, and Sam laughs, easy noise and strained undertones, as if this is all finally, _finally_ , getting to him. 

"We'll get there, Dean," Sam says, slicked-up finger gliding in and out, twisting and soothing, another joining it a moment, a lifetime, later. "I promise, we'll get there."

" _Sam, please_ ," he whines, when those two fingers become three, trying to arch up and push them deeper, push them in harder. But his hands are still cuffed and at the limit of their reach, and Sam is sitting on his feet, resting his cheek on one of Dean's propped up knees. Strands of silk move on Dean's skin when Sam laughs -- no, not silk, hair, Sam's hair. 

"You're so beautiful, Dean," Sam says, and Dean wants to argue, but one of Sam's fingertips brushes against that spot, the one that makes him want to cry, and he forgets to be upset. "This is what everyone there wanted to see: you like this, open and begging. But they'll never get to, because you're _mine_ , aren't you, Dean." 

It's not a question, but Dean tries to answer, throat spilling out "Yes"es and "Please"s and "Yours, Sam"s, over and over.

He doesn't know how long it takes, but he knows when the fingers slide out of him and don't come back. Dean looks at Sam and stops mid-thought, because Sam is taking his shirt off. It shouldn't make him react the way it does, even when he's like this; it's just Sam, his brother, taking off his shirt. But when the shirt's gone and Sam's looking at him, it's like there's nothing else. 

Like there's never been anything or anyone else. 

And for all of the heat in Sam's eyes, the way Sam's nipples look hard, dusky against the flat planes of his chest and stomach, Sam's hesitant. Sam doesn't like being naked, not completely, and Dean's never asked why, but he thinks maybe, if he can remember after this, he should. 

"Mine," he says instead, possessive and jealous and hot, because yeah, he was flirting, but people were staring at _Sam_ , too. Sam slips off his jeans and underwear, says, "Of course. Always."

Dean's not sure how Sam can sound like that, so matter-of-fact about it, like they're talking about the weather and not whatever it is that they have, together, but then Sam rolls on the condom and that's hot, because Sam has these giant hands and Dean loves to watch those hands do anything, really, but when they're gripped around Sam's cock, it's almost enough to make Dean come. Almost, but not quite, because he wants to wait, _has_ to wait, until Sam's inside of him. 

Except, then Sam _is_ , and _fuck_ if it isn't _perfect_. 

Sam leans forward, and Dean can't breathe, but he can hear Sam say, "I've always been yours, Dean," like it almost hurts, like it breaks Sam to say it. "Longer than you've been mine," Sam adds, and that _does_ hurt. 

Dean clenches and listens to Sam gasp, then pushes down, trying to get Sam in deeper, like he isn't already imprinted on every part of Dean, trying to get that tone, whatever it is, out of Sam, because the only thing that belongs in Sam is _him_. 

Sam fucks like he hunts; full attention, seeping danger and resolve, but always holding something back, always scared to let go completely, even when Sam's the one on his back, on his knees. It usually drives Dean on, makes him thrust harder, dig deeper, but now, being the one fucked, caught by the cuffs and the sight of Sam, glowing with sweat and so deep in concentration, it makes him wish he could open up more, take Sam inside of him and keep him there. 

Sam's hand ghosts over Dean's cock, and all thought is forgotten, lost in the press of flesh, in the arching backs and the keening mouths, the hands, the teeth, the hearts. 

"Sam," Dean pleads, and his vision goes white, goes black. 

"Dean," Sam gasps, and finally Sam's breaking apart, losing himself in the rhythm, in the need, that Dean's been part of for what feels like eons.

Dean comes again, shaking, pulling on the cuffs so hard that they dig into his skin and break, metal loops in the middle splitting apart. He's almost too out of it to take advantage, even then, but Sam's saying something like, "So close, _Dean_ , please, let me," so he moves and reaches for his brother, and Sam reaches back. 

"It's all right, Sammy," he says, and Sam's hand is crushing his, Sam almost sobbing. "It's all right, Sammy. Come on, you're almost there. Come, for me?" and he feels it, feels Sam's hips stutter in their rhythm as Sam presses deep, deeper, too deep and shudders, breath hitching and leaving and dying. "That's it," he murmurs, and Sam inhales, exhales, like he's fighting for air.

By the time Sam recovers enough to slip out of Dean, Dean's body is one big pile of aches, from the split skin he can feel around his wrists to the marks Sam left all over his chest and stomach to the slow, lazy burn in his thighs and ass. He hisses at the movement and Sam freezes, doesn't move again until Dean says, "'S'all right,' voice hoarse and throat another pain to add to the list. 

Sam pulls out, takes the condom off with shaking hands and ties it up, tosses it in the garbage can, and disappears into the bathroom. When he comes out, cleaned up and half-dressed again, he's carrying peroxide and two cloths, wipes Dean down with one and drips peroxide on the other, starts cleaning Dean's wounds. 

"Sam," Dean says, but Sam cuts him off, shakes his head. 

"I know, Dean. Let me?" he asks, without stopping, hand trembling against Dean's arm, and Dean sighs, leans back into the pillow and closes his eyes. 

"Yeah. Yeah, all right."

Dean lays there and lets Sam do what he needs to. He doesn't think it'd be a good idea to tell Sam to leave everything, leave him, just the way it, he, is, that if he's marked and bruised and cut, everyone will know that he belongs to Sam. That wouldn't bother him, because it's true, and because anyone who looks at Sam knows that Sam is _his_. 

Sam places kisses like mist over Dean's skin when he's done, then shifts on the bed and curls into Dean with a yawn. Dean runs a hand through Sam's hair, damp and flying everywhere, and Sam hums, burrows a little closer. 

"So, we going back tomorrow night?" Dean asks, smirk in his tone, and Sam huffs, opens his mouth and gently bites down on the part of Dean's skin closest to his teeth. "I mean, it's not fair that you get to have all the fun."

"Dean," Sam says, and Dean can almost see the look in Sam's eyes right now. "You _broke_ the handcuffs." It's not what he expected, but somehow his brother's said a lot more than just that. 

Dean moves his arm, wraps it around Sam and pulls his brother closer, closing his eyes and feeling contentment curl in his toes. "Don't worry, Sammy. I'd never expect you to." He worries, for a moment, that Sam didn't understand what he was trying to say, but then Sam smiles against his skin.

"Does this mean I can call you Superman, now?" Sam asks. 

Dean replies, "Sure. _Lois_ ," and laughter follows him into sleep.


End file.
